The Distant Wound
The coat is not merely a garment to you, but a second skin stitched from the memory of a fire that never consumed the house it burned in, and you have worn it so long through the grey, soot-choked days of the city that the wool has become indistinguishable from the calluses on your hands, a texture that speaks of endurance rather than warmth. You are Thomas Bradshaw, or so the Registry calls...
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